Chapter 100

We move out of the kitchen then, Christian making his way back to the little iron fireplace to continue stacking some logs while I head into the bathroom for a quick shower, wanting to wash the day off of me before we settle down for the night. I take my whiskey with me, wanting the peaceful buzz it’s bringing me to continue.

As I strip down, I jump a little when something clatters to the floor. Then I just stare at it, realizing that it’s the phone Nico gave to me, which I tucked into my bra before going to work at Lupa and haven’t given a second thought since. It’s a tiny, cheap thing – not even a smart phone, not really.

I lean down and turn it over in my palm, beginning to scan through the calls and messages, shocked when I see dozens of them from Christian and none from anyone else. Christian – trying to call me for hours, trying to get in touch, to figure out where I am. And all the time the phone was on silent, tucked away so that I didn’t even notice it. God, what must that have been like for him?

Softly, a little reverently, I place the phone on the side of the sink and then take a second to look at myself in the mirror, my face falling when I see the bruises that litter my body. My face is tragedy enough, with a long bruise spreading along my cheekbone and a busted lip, but my body? My body is way worse. I twist a little, grimacing to see the way that they trail down my back, sometimes such a sharp purple that it’s almost black.

But then I shut my eyes, and force myself to forget it because…because I’m safe now, right?

Safe, here, in Christian’s cottage by the sea where no one can find us. At least for now, for tonight, for these hours.

Which, in this world, is perhaps all we get sometimes.

I take a long sip of my whiskey as I turn the water on and let the air get nice and steamy. Then I talk a long, long shower, letting the hot water wipe the memory of the past twenty-four hours away. I clean myself with Christian’s surprisingly nice-smelling shampoo, conditioner, and soap – lightly floral, nothing too manly – and then carefully step out of the claw-foot tub.

I smirk a little to see that Christian popped in at some point, unheard, to drop off some makeshift pajamas for me – just a tshirt and a pair of draw-string pajama pants that were clearly sized for him, not me. I roll the waistband over several times to make the pants a reasonable length, smiling a little smugly at the thought that Christian didn’t have any women’s clothing in this little house to loan me for the evening.

So. At least he wasn’t planning to bring Violetta here anytime soon.

When I pull open the door back to the bedroom I shiver a little at the cold, wrapping my arms around myself and dancing from foot to foot on the freezing wood of the floor.

From the living room, I hear Christian’s laugh, and turn to see him peering over the edge of the couch, watching me.

“Get your ass in here, Iris,” he calls. “Come warm up.”

My face bursts into a grin and I do as I’m ordered, hurrying on my tiptoes into the living room to keep my feet off the floor as much as possible, and jumping onto the couch when I get there. My grin deepens when I spot the roaring fire Christian’s cooked up, and I realize that it’s about ten degrees warmer in here. Christian tosses me a fuzzy blanket to wrap around myself.

“This is nice,” I breathe, nodding to him, genuinely impressed.

“Are you ready for the coup d’etat?” he asks, and my smile deepens.

“Am I ready?” I ask, my eyes going wide.

He just laughs, and slips a remote I didn’t know was there from beneath his leg, and presses a button on it. Light flashes, and my head snaps up to look at the white wall above the fireplace, where a movie starts to play – projected onto the wall from someplace above and behind us.

I gasp when I see what it is – one of our absolute favorites from childhood, and a start to a trilogy that I realize, suddenly, we’re going to be spending our entire evening working our way through. “This is amazing,” I say, laughing aloud, my eyes going wide as the opening credits start to roll over the screen. “Did you do all this?”

“Yeah,” he says on a little sigh as I nestle into the pillows across the couch from him. “I always had an idea that I’d like to have an evening…quite a lot like this.”

I pull my eyes from the movie and flick them over at him, wondering if he secretly means…precisely like this. And I smile a little to myself, letting him have his secrets.

The hours slip by after that and I hardly notice their passing. And even though Christian and I have so much to talk about, so many plans to make and so much to figure out – it just feels…absolutely perfect to ignore everything and banter a bit. Christian produces a tin of popcorn from a closet somewhere, and we munch on that, engaging in the old debates about the characters again and again.

There’s a great deal of whiskey too, poured into our glasses and slipped between our lips. I pretend not to notice when the level gets so low on the first bottle that Christian produces another. I also pretend not to notice when our legs stretch out over the couch towards each other, tangling and entwining as time passes. Pretend not to notice, to enjoy it immensely, when Christian takes one of my feet in his hands and gently begins to massage it, pressing his thumbs into the tired and tender muscles in the arch of my foot.

Of course, it’s hard to pretend it’s not happening when the little moan of pleasure slips out of my mouth – but he just smirks at me, and lets it pass, turning his eyes back to the screen and asking me whether I think the heroine is just a little too good for the hero. I insist that she isn’t – that she could never be.

“I don’t know what you mean, Chris,” I say loftily, tugging my foot out of his hand before I stand up and walk – a little unsteadily – to the freezer, where I refresh the ice in my glass. I start back towards him as I continue my harangue. “She’s a clever girl, but without our hero she’d just be bartending in rural Russia – I don’t see what the debate is –“

“The debate –“ he murmurs as I walk by, and I squeak a little in protest, stopping in my tracks as he snatches the ice-filled glass out of my hand. My eyes go wide as, lightning fast, he puts the glass on the floor and grabs me by the wrist, tugging me down.

Down – not onto the sofa where I was sitting before. But down onto his lap, so that my face is inches from his.

“The debate,” he repeats, softer now that we’re close enough to share breath, as he wraps his arms around my middle. “Is whether or not he ruined her life by taking her out of that bar and stringing her along on all his adventures.”

“Trust me, Chris,” I murmur, losing myself completely to the moment and the whiskey, leaning closer and pressing a hand to his cheek. “There was nothing to ruin.”

“What if she was happy?” he whispers, his lips almost against mine, his arms tightening, pulling me ever closer to him. “What if she liked being a bartendress in a rural Russian bar?”

“She didn’t,” I assure.

“How do you know?”

“Because,” I say, smirking a little as he raises his chin, just a bit. “I know.”

And then I dip my head that final millimeter, giving in, and pressing my mouth to his. Christian kisses me right back, moving a hand up my back to press me closer, turning his whole body slightly so that I’m not hovering over him anymore, but so that I’m laying back against one of his arms. I hear him inhale sharply as he kisses me, like he’s been waiting to breathe.

Like this lets him breathe, finally.